21 Shades of Night, page 349
I am in the middle of a tidal wave, in the eye of a twister; my bones are clanging against each other. I look around, realizing it's not just me. Everything around me is shaking too. It is a helicopter, and I am on the floor, flung in a corner, my back awkwardly bent. I expect my hands and legs to be tied, but am surprised to find I can still move them freely. I look for the sword in its customary place in the small of my back. But of course, it is gone. As is the bag with the phone. My heart racing, I recall the red splash against the wall. The vivid scarlet is burnt into my brain.
Vik is dead!
No, he can't be.
I saw it happen.
Everything is mixed up in my head, which is throbbing in earnest from the blow I have been dealt. The whack has woken up every single injury in my body. Like babies aroused from a deep sleep and baying with hunger, each of them now sings at the top of its voice, competing with the others. Mouths wide open, they want to consume me.
Through blurry eyes, I see people moving around. They walk easily over the rolling deck, used to this unsteady world. Even as I follow them with my eyes, my body continues to move with the flow, back and forth. A full one hundred and eighty degrees I seem to turn, before being thrown back against a metal wall. The knock jolts me, waking me up a little more.
Around me are boys and girls clad in sweatshirts and jeans. Some have baseball cap additions pushed down over their heads. I am slap-bang in the center of the kiddie army.
As I watch their confident strides, I realize it's actually quite a well-run operation. There are no wasted movements. Each person knows what's expected of him or her. In the far corner are piled stacks of metal cylinders. A well-built muscular boy leans down to pull out a sheaf of metal, slinging it over his chest sash-style. It's a belt of bullets. There's no mistaking the cut-off T-shirt, the fern-leaf-like tattoos which run over one side of his arm and over his back. It's the one Vikram referred to as Vishal. Why does his tattoo feel so familiar?
Vishal turns around and my eyes flutter shut, trying to keep the illusion of my being knocked out a while longer.
"All right, listen up, people!" His voice rings with authority. It's compelling enough for me to pop open my eyelids slightly. I watch as those around me drop what they are doing. Is it respect or fear that has them snapping to attention?
"It's not going to be pretty when we land. It will be your mothers and fathers among the crowd. But remember, we keep our eyes on the big goal."
There is a muted assent from the crowd. "A new tomorrow."
"I didn't hear you!" he admonishes them.
"A new city. A new future. One which is only ours!" they chant in response.
"Death to all who get in the way." Vishal raises his machine gun.
"Death to all!"
The talk about death is very confusing. Why did it feel more obscene when people spoke about death, rather than when you saw it unfold in front of your eyes?
Vishal nods, and smiles slightly. "Remember, don't hurt the kids. All we have to do is get them to base. A taste of Youthenasia, that's all it takes."
Does he mean euthanasia?
"Like the first taste of mother's milk." One of the boys snickers.
"Youthenasia. Ambrosia … A slice of heaven," says another.
I am positive he pronounces it as Youthenasia. What's weirder is that even Rock's impassive countenance has softened. What are they talking about?
There's something else bothering me. It's been niggling away in the corner of my mind, something I can't quite pin down. Now, watching Vishal, it hits me. His tattoo is just like my lightning tree. He is the person Vik mentioned, the only other person who has a genetic make up like mine. I am not sure what to make of that.
One thing I know, I am going to make sure he never sees the lightning tree on my back.
"Five minutes to landing," comes the pilot's voice.
"All right, get ready, troops," Rock calls out, his voice rippling through the space like gravel vibrating on a rough surface.
As they scramble, I crawl forward, unnoticed, moving to a place from where I can see through to the open doorway of the helicopter.
To my left is the line of the sea. We are just crossing a rocky beach with small boats bobbing on the waves, some of the vessels on fire. I look to my right, swallowing down the surprise at the scene that greets my eyes: there are fires spread throughout the city.
We are flying above the most densely populated inner suburbs of the city, the ones beyond Bandra. A skyline of tall residential blocks clustered cheek by jowl with shorter, older apartments, all clumped pell-mell around twisted streets once snarling with traffic. Now, they are clumped with slow-moving cars, their weak lights cutting through the darkening shadows as if drunk on cheap country liquor. We are at Lokhandwala, a suburb that was once the haunt of new money. It was here, at this space on the banks of a long-covered drain that dumped sewage into the sea, that the creative intelligentsia who couldn't afford to live in Bandra had set up home.
I look out to see the sun rising over the horizon. It casts its bleak light over Armageddon. From our low altitude, I can see some vehicles have already been abandoned on the streets while smoke fumes out of windows of some of the high rises. Even as I watch, an apartment block falls in on itself. Next to it are shops on fire.
There, in the wake of fire, is a whole new breed of little people: a gang of thugs—kids—ranging in size from ten-year-olds to full-grown eighteen-year-old adults. As I watch, they swarm over the first car, pulling things out of it before setting it on fire. Some break into a wild jig around it, as if it's all part of some religious ceremony.
Hearing a movement behind me, I see Vishal staring down at me, his face expressionless. He leans forward to get a better view from the window. He gazes intently before nodding, apparently satisfied with what he sees. He grins. "Enjoy the view while you still can."
A ping sounds down my back, and I look away. I don't want to know what is happening outside anymore. With my left hand, I feel for the sword again, cursing when I don't find it. I want to feel the reassuring edge of steel in my hands now.
There is a sudden flurry of activity, and a gaggle of the kids rush towards me. One of them grabs me by my armpits, slamming me against the row of seats by the wall. Following their lead, I strap myself in. The fresh, glowing faces of the kids strike me once more. So different than the everyday malnourished faces I see on the street. These are all prime specimens of youth. Every girl and boy is perfect in features, in physique. The ugliest by far is Crew Cut—Vishal.
I feel small and tiny, almost alien among this Aryan army. As my eyes run down the row at chest height, I notice one of them is bulked up so much his chest muscles are the same breadth as the bust size of the girl next to him, a girl who wears a familiar scabbard tucked into the band around her cinched-in waist.
My eyes travel to her face, and she bares her teeth at me. She is spectacular to look at. Blue and pink streaks run through her lion's mane of hair. Light grey-blue eyes stare back at me, unblinking. Her hoodie is a deep purple, tight enough to stretch over her flat stomach, short enough for a belly button to peek out. She wears leather pants, this one.
Seeing me stare again, she touches the sword handle, gripping it possessively. A second warning ping runs through my lightning tree. I take a deep breath to calm myself. I have made myself another enemy. I have so many enemies now I am running out of fingers and toes to count them on. In fact, except for Panky, I have no one else to fall back on in this crazy shifted reality I am living in right now.
The helicopter is landing. None too gently, it drops out of the skies and bounces twice before coming to a stop. "Oops! Sorry guys," the pilot's voice says over the announcement system. "Not bad for a maiden flight, you have to admit, though." He's driving this contraption for the first time? You have got to be kidding me.
"Okay, people on the ground, go, go," Vishal yells. I am left there, still strapped in as the rest leap out. Just as he turns to go, Vishal hesitates long enough to grab the belt from his trousers, which he proceeds to tie around my legs. Grabbing hold of one of the last remaining boys, who is about to leap out of the helicopter, he silently points to the belt he is wearing. The boy makes a face but does as told, pulling it out to hand it over to Vishal.
My hands are then pulled to the front and tied.
"What?" I speak to the top of his head as he leans over, making sure I am secured. "Worried about me escaping, are you? After all, what could a defenseless girl like me possibly have you so worried about?"
"Defenseless, my ass!" He stands up, fixing me with those inscrutable black pebbles he has in place of eyes. Vikram's eyes are different. Warmer. Amber eyes which glow when he smiles. The thought of him wounded, probably dead by now, twists my insides.
No! He is alive. I have to believe that.
But even if he is, there is no one to help him. No ambulances, no hospitals, not even passing strangers. What do you do when there is no one else around? When all anyone wants to do is escape the nightmare we are trapped in?
This is my reality.
The lightning tree is now steadily pinging, the effect much like the ringing of a phone. It is insistent, calling to me to quench its thirst. Stay calm; bide your time.
Vishal leaves, but not before I notice his trousers now hanging halfway down his butt. The label of his underwear peeks through above the waistband of his jeans. The possible end of the world as we know it is no reason to abandon your designer clothes now, is it?
Vishal jumps out of the open helicopter and runs straight for the small motley crowd of people who are grappling with his teen army. He fires in the air and everyone freezes. I can't hear what he is saying, but then his team of five is pushing people back. They are going through the crowd, dividing them into two groups, pulling out the teens to one side.
Soon there is a raggedy group of five boys and three girls huddled on the left. All the adults are to the right. There is a scream as one of the girls breaks loose and rushes towards her mother, only to be caught by one of Vishal's goons, who flings her back to her position. The teens are pushed towards the helicopter.
Now it is the turn of the rest of the crowd to get restive, to push against those holding them back. A scuffle breaks out and a boy fires in the air, but that only angers the parents. One of the men makes a break towards the teens being marched towards us. The next moment, he is shot and on the ground. A boy screams and tries to rush back to help his dad, at which point there is full-blown firing, and half the crowd is on the ground, wounded. The rest cower, their hands over their heads.
It's not a scene from a movie.
This is the single most brutal piece of real-life killing I have seen.
More than anything, what worries me is the cold-blooded ease of the entire operation. We have been on the ground for less than ten minutes and at least twenty people are dead. And these kiddie soldiers are indifferent. They are automatons, stripped of all emotion.
Then the teens are in the helicopter. Rock prods them along, another massive gun in hand.
When one of the boys slows down, he shoves him along, almost bringing the boy to his knees.
He pushes the kids into the seats next to me. "Strap in," he commands, standing over them until satisfied they are all secure; then he takes his seat opposite us. Now he trains his gun at me. I stare down the muzzle.
The girl who had rushed towards her mother is the only one sobbing quietly. Most of the others are shell-shocked, not quite understanding what is happening around them. I kind of empathize—it's how I feel too. As if I am not living my life anymore. Except, I don't have the luxury of wallowing in bewilderment.
A couple of the boys act as if they are on a school trip to a very exciting unknown destination. Either they have never been in a situation of abject terror or they don't know what it is to be completely helpless. Apparently, even having people killed around them is not doing the trick. They've obviously not been burnt by something resembling ten thousand volts of lightning, or been shot at, or killed someone—for they don't show much fear. It's quite the opposite.
The boy whose father has been gunned down shows no acknowledgement of being orphaned. "So where are we going?" he asks in a whiny voice.
Rock walks up to him and slaps him. The sound is more punishing than a pistol shot. Bet the kid has never been slapped by his own parents. The boy stares back, more in shock than in pain at Rock's retreating shoulders. "Where are you taking us?" he persists. His voice is shaking with nervousness or perhaps excitement.
"Listen up, then," Vishal addresses the group. "You snotty, sniveling kids have obviously no idea how lucky you are to be here."
"Yeah, like being chosen by God, no doubt," the same boy retorts.
"How did you know?" Vishal bares his teeth, his smile cunning. He is only five or six years older than this boy, yet he seems more mature, ruthless. Like he has already offered his soul to the devil and lived to tell the tale.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Ah!" The boy swallows, fearful at being put in the spotlight and at the same time inflating with self-importance.
"Well?" Vishal walks up and holds his gun against the boy's nose. The muzzle dwarfs his face.
"Bonny." His voice trembles.
"I didn't hear you." Vishal cocks the rifle, the sound lending an edge to the sharp tang of perspiration in the air. It's muggy in the aftermath of the first rains outside.
"Bonny. BONNY," the boy screams.
The breeze from the open doorway blows through, tearing through his words, carrying them away even as he spits them out. Fear, surprise and sheer fighting for one's life is a potent cocktail of emotions, as Bonny is just finding out.
"Bonny?" Vishal laughs before lowering his gun.
His mirth cuts through the tension in the chopper. The boy joins in. Then everyone around Vishal is laughing. The kids cling to the sides of the helicopter, slipping to the floor, holding their sides.
A broad smile on his face, Vishal asks, "You sure had very imaginative parents, didn't you?"
Had? Am I the only one hearing what Vishal is saying?
I look around, but the kids are entranced by Vishal and the faces of the handsome, laughing gargoyles around him. Those adults—their parents—are all dead. But none of the others seem to care.
"Not to worry." He pats the boy on the head. "You are going to meet the mother you never had, the one you always wished for but didn't know existed. But first you still have to meet your maker, right?"
Bonny nods jerkily. He's not hearing anything being said. He's just pleased to be spared his life.
Then we are off again, lifting shakily into the air. We dip precariously low, almost hitting the ground, before shooting up in a near vertical climb. The blades of the machine cut through the low-hanging clouds. My stomach drops to the floor near my feet. The boy next to me groans, and a girl makes gagging noises, as if she is about to throw up.
Will we crash before reaching our destination?
Not that it matters. Vikram's already gone. And Panky? I feel numb. I may as well be more dead than alive, except for the slight, imperceptible shudder rippling down my back.
I am not as alone as I think.
Chapter 22
A TWENTY-MINUTE choppy ride later, the helicopter lands again.
This time, the docking is smoother. Vishal unties my legs; startling me out of the exhausted half-sleep I had fallen into. He removes the strap from around my hands, leaving me to rub the smarting flesh. I watch as he threads the belt through his waistband, buckling it up. From the open doorway of the helicopter, the unmistakable swishing back and forth of waves reaches me. We have landed on a beach.
I try to orient my geography to get my bearings. A twenty-minute chopper ride equals a two-and-a-half-hour road trip, perhaps more.
The girl who has my sword comes up to us.
"Don't bother yourself with her, Vishal. Just leave her to me." It's the second time someone on his team has asked Vishal to have his or her way with me. Am I in demand or what?
"She isn't as helpless as she looks, Sabina," he replies, not taking his eyes off me.
"I am more than a match for her. You know that." A greedy look sparks in her eyes before she rises on tiptoe to flick out her tongue and touch his lips. Very subtle. I roll my eyes, and without a second thought, kick her right in the middle of her stomach. I have to. It's downright rude what she is doing, arcing over me to slobber all over Vishal, almost squashing me between the two of them, as if I didn't exist.
As she doubles over, I grab my sword and leap around. Now my arm is around her neck, the tip of my sword pressing against the skin with enough force to draw blood.
There is surprise and something that seems strangely like admiration in Vishal's eyes.
I raise an eyebrow at him, as I straighten. Only to start when the sound of a dozen rifles being cocked fills the air.
Vishal holds up a hand, motioning the others to fall back.
"You don't want to do that," he drawls.
"Oh! Yeah?" It's the smugness in his voice that pushes me over the edge. I plunge the knife into the girl, and she screams. It's a shrill screech, going on and on, echoes in my ears. Like a siren, it cuts through the crowd. It has the effect of directing every single eye on me.
Then, to the accompaniment of my heart slamming against my rib cage, as if it were I and not her being murdered, I twist the sword.
Sabina gurgles, the blood rushing out of her mouth, spilling over my hand.
Pulling out the sword, I push the now inert body towards Vishal with enough force that he has no option but to hold her. Turning around, I leap out of the helicopter to the accompaniment of the bullets ricocheting off the open entrance, hitting the sand so the grains sting my ankles.
I run to the other side of the helicopter; it shelters me against the barrage, buying me a precious couple of seconds as I run away, leaping over the low wall demarcating the beach from the rest of the land. To my surprise, they have stopped firing at me. Then I see why. I've reached the mother ship.
